


a tale that can't be told

by vaudelin



Series: supernatural codas [16]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 15, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Castiel Losing His Powers, Castiel's Missing Brown Truck, Coda, Dean Has to Use His Words, Dean's Top 13 Zepp Traxx Mixtape, Episode: s15e03 The Rupture, Episode: s15e06 Golden Time, Getting Together, Hopeful Ending, Human Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Masturbation, Memory Loss, Sharing a Bed, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:02:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21724192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaudelin/pseuds/vaudelin
Summary: Black leather and oil scent the air around him, a welcome change from antiseptics.Impala, Castiel thinks.Baby. Except he’s not allowed to call her that.A flash of brown panelling slides through his memory, rattling on a rusted truck bed with wood for bed rails.Outside the car, the brothers are quietly arguing. Castiel cranes to listen, but he only picks out a partial phrase from Sam:Since when was he losing his powers?The snippet from Dean is even more troubling:Is Chuck fucking with us by giving him a factory reset?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: supernatural codas [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/858428
Comments: 58
Kudos: 569
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	a tale that can't be told

**Author's Note:**

  * For [remmyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/remmyme/gifts).



> This is a belated birthday gift for my darling Remmy, who has been a bright light in my life the past several years ♥♥♥
> 
> This fic started out being plain ol' canonverse, then quickly revealed itself to be a coda. It is set sometime around/before S15E06, deviating from the events that took place in that episode. In this version, Castiel has been on his own since S15E03, but his last case was with Stevie, the gorgeous hunter from S15E03. This story picks up shortly after that.

######  **ONE**

He wakes up slowly in a white room, with two men towering by the foot of his bed.

At first the two men are nothing more than blurry shadows, ones he has to blink sharply against in order to resolve. There is a bandage covering his eye, and some sort of fabric is taped right beneath his nose. His mouth is dry, his lips split around something light but solid. A steady beeping comes from somewhere above his head.

When his vision sharpens, he realizes the two men are turned with their backs facing toward him. They wear jeans and dark canvas jackets; one has long hair, the other short. The one with short hair keeps touching his face and fidgeting, rocking from foot to foot. Their coats and collars keep the most discernible details about them at bay.

The two men are talking to a third person that he cannot see. Her presence is known only for the way her voice rings clearly above the murmured two, and how the two men keep looking at her when they aren’t exchanging looks with each other.

They sound angry about something.

Interrogative.

Machines beep in the brief silence between words.

He tries to sit up. It’s not possible; the pain in his abdomen tells him this right away. Failing that, he tries to raise his hand and call for attention. When that does not work, he tries inhaling deeply. And when that also does not work, he settles in for a fit of wracking coughs.

At the sound, the man with short hair turns quickly to face him, but it’s the man with long hair who actually approaches the side of his bed.

“Hey, Cas,” says the man with long hair, crouching down. His elbows come to rest on the railing of the hospital bed, large hands folded together, fidgeting. He tries to smile. The gesture is as gentle as his voice. “How are you feeling?”

He coughs his reply. He tries again to speak, but his jaw is unable to move.

The beeping continues, louder, and the man with short hair grumbles, “Christ, Sammy, he’s got a tube down his throat. What kind of answer did you expect?” To the woman, he barks: “Can we get somebody to help him here?”

The woman eyes him a moment, unimpressed, before she saunters out the door.

Now that he is both awake and aware of the tubing wedged violently inside his mouth, panic seems the appropriate response. He reaches for his face with both hands; only one has the ability to touch the plastic. The other seems bound up in further tape and tubes. His chest heaves with shoveled breaths.

“Easy, easy,” says the man with long hair, soothing, at the same time the other man is telling him, “Pin his arms down, damnit, he’s gonna rip out the IV—”

The man with long hair stands over him. Broad hands settle heavily on his shoulders, pinning him firmly to the hospital bed.

It hurts more than anything ought to. He grunts and strains against it. The machines beep out indignations.

“You’re okay,” the man with long hair keeps saying. “Stevie got you here in time. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

The man with short hair says nothing. He hunches over crossed arms and shuts his gaze away.

A medical professional comes to see him, eventually.

She increases the oxygen in his intubation and raises the head of his hospital bed. She encourages him to breathe while she describes what she is about to do. The tape around his mouth gets removed, ripping away with a healthy sprinkling of stubble. The pressure in his throat decreases and then increases, and with a deep breath the intubation is withdrawn, coughed through until his mouth is suctioned clean.

A cannulae is fitted beneath his nose, resting light against his skin. He closes his eyes as she reassess him, asking if he’s okay. He nods, then speaks when she asks him to.

Finally, Castiel can breathe.

Which is strange. He doesn’t remember much, but he remembers not needing to breathe.

The two men hover nervously nearby, far enough outside his vision that they don’t really trouble him. One of them keeps pacing. The other one keeps frowning at the pacing.

“Cas,” one begins, while the other cuts in: “Do you know who we are?”

Castiel cracks open his good eye. He stares at the man in the chair.

Long brown hair. Doe eyes. More sorrows than he deserves etched into the lines on his face.

“Sam,” Castiel croaks. His throat is sore yet.

Sam smiles and then fiddles with a pitcher on the side table, passing him a small plastic cup of ice water. Castiel braces Sam’s hand with the one of his not currently wrapped up in tape.

“And?” the other man says expectantly.

Castiel closes his eyes. He doesn’t need to meet the man’s eyes; he has already memorized their shade of green. “Dean.”

A breath huffs out on the other side of the room, cutting the tension by half. “Good. That’s good, right?”

Sam doesn’t look at Dean. He keeps worriedly watching Castiel. “What do you remember?”

Castiel considers the question. He has his body. Aches and pains. Sutures across the majority of his abdomen. A bad cut across his temple that stings whenever his expression shifts. But beyond that...

Fever. Seizures. Chills.

Adrenaline.

Scraped hands. Bruised jaw.

A crown of needles embedded in his brow.

Sam pulls away the empty plastic cup. Castiel drags his cold tongue over his lips.

“Rowena,” Castiel rasps.

Unexpectedly, Sam flinches. He and Dean — his brother — exchange glances.

“So you don’t…?” Sam begins slowly.

Castiel winces. His body hurts more than it should. “How many did I injure?”

The brothers turn toward each other, baffled. Sam glances at the spot where Stevie last stood, but she left once Castiel was confirmed stable, escaping from the brothers as quickly as she could. Another unsure look, then: “What happened on the case?”

Castiel frowns. “Case?”

“Your case,” Dean confirms, gruff. “You and Stevie and a couple others, out playing bigshots at a werewolf den in Utah.”

Castiel frowns harder. “You mean this—” he gestures at his body “—isn’t Rowena’s attack dog spell?”

Dean stills. He steps closer, exiting the orbital path he’s been pacing. “You got shot, Cas. Some idiot you were with figured silver buckshot would take the wolves out quick, whether or not you were in the line of fire.”

Dean’s hands tremble on the back of the second chair, fingers flexing the fabric. Castiel cannot tell what emotion fills him; either fear or rage.

“You were in surgery,” Sam says. “We got the call, when Stevie thought you weren’t—” He swallows, head bowed. “But you made it. And we’re here.”

Castiel nods, distantly. He stares at Dean’s forearm. Sometime during extubation, Dean removed his jacket. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, now, and his skin—

“The Mark,” Castiel says, reaching, though Dean is too far away to touch. To confirm. “You’re okay? Rowena’s spell removed it?”

Sam stares at the ground. Arms tight. Jaw flexing.

Dean rubs his chin. Scoffs. Drops his head. “Not funny, Cas.”

Castiel hasn’t said anything with humor. “I don’t understand.”

“The Mark—” Dean cuts off, breathing hard. His nostrils flare. “The Mark was gone years ago.”

Ah. Rage, then.

A cold sweat breaks out along Castiel’s back, precursor to the uneasy revelation building in the back of his mind. He touches his fingers to his belly, tender and full of stitches. He summons his powers. Or tries to; warmth rises in his palm, and nothing more.

“Am I—” Now that he has to, Castiel suddenly cannot breathe. “How—when—?”

His good hand tears at the bandages on his face.

_Bandages._

_Stitches._

_Intubation._

_Surgery_.

Quietly, Castiel asks, “When did I become human?”

Dean sighs heavily. “That’s what we want to know.”

######  **TWO**

They give Castiel back his belongings, shortly before he’s been discharged. An attendant hands over a clear bag containing his clothes, as well as a stack of care instructions that weigh as much as a small tome. Dean takes the papers, then takes off for the car. The bag rests on Castiel’s thighs as Sam wheels him out to the parking lot.

Inside the bag are shoes, and a belt. A cell phone. Shirt, jacket, and a pair of slacks. A trench coat and tie Castiel has never seen before.

All of his worldly possessions.

This is who Castiel ought to be.

The shirt and jacket are stained with dried blood, when he unfolds them, the trench coat likewise pocked with holes from the buckshot. Castiel has to wait for Dean to fish fresh clothes out from the trunk before he’s able to continue dressing. Dean looks resigned when he passes over the shirt, shoving the flannel at him like it’s contaminated. Castiel sits in the car’s back seat and struggles to make the buttons close.

Black leather and oil scent the air around him, a welcome change from antiseptics.

 _Impala_ , Castiel thinks. _Baby_. Except he’s not allowed to call her that.

A flash of brown panelling slides through his memory, rattling on a rusted truck bed with wood for bed rails.

Outside the car, the brothers are quietly arguing. Castiel cranes to listen, but he only picks out a partial phrase from Sam:

_Since when was he losing his powers?_

The snippet from Dean is even more troubling:

_Is Chuck fucking with us by giving him a factory reset?_

“Where’s my truck?” Castiel asks, once Dean and Sam are both sitting in the front seat, equally agitated with each other.

Dean pretends to be busy pulling them away from the hospital, so it’s Sam who replies, “We think it’s parked by the cabin you hit. Maybe a quarter-mile out from it, in the woods?” Sam turns around in his seat, flashes Castiel an awkward smile. “We can pick it up, if you want.”

“Another time,” Dean cuts in.

“Dean,” Sam says, frowning.

“What?” Dean fires back. “It’s the woods. It’s safe enough.”

Sam tilts his head, jaw set tight. “Having it might help with his memories.”

“We’re not splitting the party,” Dean retorts.

“Dean,” Sam says again.

Dean stares out the driver’s side window, saying nothing. Sam sighs and stares ahead.

Castiel fidgets with the bag of his belongings. He winds the belt into lazy loops in his hands, thinking without really thinking.

They’re angry with each other, and he doesn’t know why. With Dean saved from the Mark’s influence, all should be well, shouldn’t it?

He would’ve thought they’d both been happier, to know the Mark is no longer at play.

Would’ve thought that Dean would have been happier, too. To see him again.

To know that Castiel is alive and okay.

The bunker is a couple hours beyond what Castiel’s stomach accepts as a reasonable travel distance, so Dean makes the reluctant decision to pull them over in a dust-covered town on the north end of Kansas. Dean finds a food joint with drive thru service, orders them burgers and sauce-drenched salads. They take their meals on the road.

The drive is quiet, the silence uneasy. Sam is researching something on his tablet, and glancing frequently at Castiel in the rear view mirror. Dean is glancing at him too, though his expression is far less friendly. Castiel suspects he’s still upset about the werewolf hunt gone wrong. One that apparently almost killed Castiel.

Castiel props his cheeseburger against his lips with his bandaged hand, and gnaws at it absently while his good hand thumbs through his cell phone records. Sesame seeds brush off his lips with every bump in the road.

There’s a long text log from Sam, dating back several weeks. His messages start out pleasant, but grow increasingly worried over a series of days before dropping off. Oddly, Castiel’s responses are absent from the thread.

Castiel searches for Dean’s text thread next, and finds it surprisingly low on the recent contacts list. Reading through it, he confirms that Dean’s text log is dead, having fallen silent around the same time Castiel’s messages to Sam go missing. Their call history is scattershot too.

Castiel must have deleted his history with both of them. Which is strange; normally, Castiel likes hoarding every message given or received.

There are other contacts in his phone that he doesn’t recognize. One labelled Jack, who was in frequent contact until their chat goes quiet about a month ago. Another labelled Mary, who has likewise fallen dark. Maggie before that — now quiet — and Jules — active as of the past couple weeks. Stevie, his most recent contact, confirming the case outside Salt Lake City. Another labelled Kelly, its text chain long dead.

Rowena is in there too, somehow. Their call and text history goes back a surprising number of years. Her messages to him are ominously flirty. Castiel’s responses are mostly polite.

Rowena’s texts stop arriving around the same time Dean’s messages stopped too.

Castiel takes a contemplative bite of his burger. There’s so much history contained in this one basic device. People he doesn’t know, chatting frequently with him. People he does know, falling silent. So many memories lost, that he might somehow glean.

He has so many questions; he doesn’t know where to begin asking them.

Castiel closes his texting app, and opens the photo library next.

They arrive at the bunker at an ungodly hour after midnight. Sam grabs their bags and excuses himself immediately. Dean glowers after him, before resigning himself to Castiel’s side, extending his arm and helping Castiel hobble around the bunker.

“Your mother,” Castiel asks quietly, while Dean is frog-marching him toward his bedroom — _Castiel’s bedroom_ — in the bunker dormitories. “She’s alive?”

Dean responds to the question violently, muscles seemingly locking him in place. Castiel falls out from Dean’s tepid grip on his elbow, two steps down the hall beyond where Dean has paused. It takes a moment for his body to steady itself outside of Dean’s support. It takes a moment longer to regain the coordination to face Dean again.

Castiel falters looking at him, though he’s not sure why. He feels compelled to explain himself, somehow, again and again. “My phone. She’s a contact in it. But I haven’t heard from her lately.”

Dean’s face hardens, then softens, then hardens again. Castiel watches closely, noting the moment when a decision is made.

“She was,” Dean says, voice rough. “The Darkness brought her back.”

“Was?” Castiel asks tentatively, though he doesn’t know what Dean means by the Darkness.

“Yeah.” Dean nods, body rough. “God wanted her dead. For the, uh. Drama.”

“God?” Castiel asks, alarmed. “God’s back?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. His mouth twists with a grin that is not a grin. “Got bad news about that too. But, uh. We’ll leave it for now.”

Castiel wants to chase him for more answers, but Dean merely pushes him into his room, shutting off the light while muttering a half-hearted “Goodnight”.

######  **THREE**

Castiel spends a lot of time in his room, bored out of his mind, since he’s technically still recovering from surgery, but doesn’t actually feel like sleeping every hour of the day.

His room is much the same as he remembers it, now that he woke remembering it at all: spartan in style and furniture, devoid of all personal touches. There’s nothing here that speaks of Castiel, no detritus that advises him of what has passed in the years he’s lost since Rowena’s attack dog spell.

It doesn’t bode well for his position in the bunker. Castiel would’ve thought he’d have more belongings here, if this room were any sort of permanent address for him.

The boredom increases once Sam and Dean return to hunting, now that they’re no longer convinced leaving Castiel on his own is a terrible idea. Conversations about their cases stay hushed and distant, however; the brothers maintaining that Castiel is better off not knowing, “for his health,” as Sam so often claims.

Castiel manages to eavesdrop, sometimes, if they’re standing close enough to his room while they talk. He hears his name a lot, laced with Sam’s worry, but Dean doesn’t say much in return when Castiel comes up as a topic.

None of it is a good sign.

He hasn’t yet figured out why they’re talking again about Chuck and Lilith, of all people. Castiel texts Stevie and Jules for any insight, but they have little to offer, as they seem to be on the outs with much of what he, Sam, and Dean were doing. Jules gives him brief messages about the hunter hub Sam made, now crippled, after her arrival from an apocalyptic version of the world. Stevie tells him about the rift to Hell that opened last month, the sacrifices that were made to close it.

Castiel’s understanding of Rowena clears a little more. It couples with a sorrow he doesn’t recognize, one that rises whenever he recalls her face.

She had become a friend, before he’d lost his memories. Castiel cannot tell whether it is better or worse to know this and not remember more.

Castiel sets alarms for each of the medications he has to take for his injuries. He passes time by playing phone games, or watching shows using Sam’s streaming accounts. He lies in bed with a pillow propped on his abdomen, sifting through photos on his phone, putting faces to names. He tries piecing together who is based on who he was, at the time each of these photos were taken.

There is a boy in many of the photos. Early twenties, but maybe younger, judging by his guileless smile. Sometimes he is posed with Castiel beside him, arms swung fondly around each other. Other times the boy is in photos by himself, smiling proudly at the phototaker.

At Castiel.

The boy accounts for so many of the photos on Castiel’s cell phone. He is in group pictures with Sam and Dean, and a woman Castiel now recognizes as Mary.

Most of the photos take place around the bunker. There are board games out in the library; popcorn and drinks in Dean’s movie room.

They’re all so happy with each other, like it is enough that life simply gathered them into one single place.

Castiel wonders what happened to the boy in the photos.

The boy. Jack. He’s figured out that much, based on photos and logs between corresponding texts.

The final messages Castiel sent to Jack were all focused on searching for him. The phone log, too, speaks of calls rapidly made, unanswered. Of promises that everything could still be alright, if only Jack would come home to them. To him.

Despite the lump of knowing dread that has formed in his belly, Castiel hopes he’s somehow okay.

In the morning a few days later, Castiel manages to make it to the kitchen under his own power for the first time. He’s hungry, and aching all over his body. He didn’t sleep well, despite the comfort of his bed. The cut on his face has stopped dotting blood onto his pillowcase, but his stomach bandages are in dire need of being replaced.

Sam has been his primary caregiver since returning home, although Dean chimes in whenever it becomes clear that Sam is tired of taking care of him. Sam always manages to meet Castiel’s eye and give him a comforting smile, no matter his exhaustion. Dean, on the contrary, is always brusque with Castiel, and when he bothers to look at him, his gaze always fixates on the stitches on Castiel’s face.

The pockets of Castiel’s gray robe are weighed down by prescription bottles, today, which he cycles through rapidly, popping lids and swallowing pills with a glass he filled from the tap. The motions are all so mundane. Human. Reminiscent of his time taking ibuprofen for a sore back in Rexford, a short lifetime ago.

Footsteps approach down the hall around the time Castiel has finagled cereal and milk into a ceramic bowl. He digs into a box of Crunch Cookie Crunch, and stares at the back of the box, pondering why Dean has reverted to purchasing such childish treats for his breakfasts.

Castiel looks up when the footsteps come into the kitchen, but it’s only Sam, looking damp and harried by what must have been his morning jog. He greets Castiel quickly, and then rushes through drinking a glass of water, punching buttons on the coffee maker with his thumb while the glass continues to drain.

“Sleep well?” Sam asks, breath puffing past the last gulp.

Castiel lies, nodding yes. He drags his spoon through his bowl of milk, gathering dregs along with courage. No point putting off the inevitable question.

“Sam?” he begins, drawing Sam’s attention away from the thermos he’s wedged beneath the coffee dispenser. “What are you and Dean hiding from me?”

Sam’s mouth falls open. His attention drops to the hot coffee dribbling over his hand. “Shit. Sorry—you—what?”

“Dean,” Castiel says. “He’s angry with me. He barely speaks to me, even if I prompt him. And I don’t know why.”

Sam presses the webbing between his fingers to his mouth, sucking at the burned skin. He shakes his hand out, biding time. Castiel waits patiently, fishing out the last of his cereal dregs.

“You two were … arguing,” Sam says, after a long contemplation, “last you saw each other. Dean probably is still dealing with all... that. And he doesn’t want to bother you with it yet.”

“Arguing?” Castiel frowns. “What were we arguing about?”

But Sam is shaking his head. “Listen. Just try to get your strength back, okay? We’ll catch you up about—well, everything—when you’re feeling better.”

“Alright,” Castiel says slowly, except that Dean isn’t talking to him, and his memory is as solid as Swiss cheese, and it all makes him feel worse still.

######  **FOUR**

Since he’s human now, Castiel does his best to adjust to the requirements of his human body.

He showers once a day. Brushes his teeth, after waking and before returning to bed. Utilizes the toilet as often as his body demands. Hydrates. Eats. Performs stretches as indicated by his packet of post-surgery care.

Castiel removes his bandages and pulls out his sutures, once sufficient time has passed. He shaves every morning, only to be greeted again by stubble before the day’s end.

Most mornings, he wakes with an erection. Something he chooses to ignore, most of the time.

Castiel is aware of the physiology behind his body’s actions, resting warm and urgent against his belly. He stirs awake to the added pressure of his cock now tenting his underwear.

Increasingly, he is learning the psychological benefits behind his body’s actions too.

Some mornings, he chooses to handle his erection instead of ignoring it. He breathes through the first moments of wakefulness, when his mind is untethered, his senses muzzy. He shuffles onto his stomach, pushing pillows aside, and rolls his hips in lazy thrusts against the mattress.

His body trembles with delightful friction; he’s breathy and groaning by the time he awakens enough to do more.

Most times, as he’s snaking a hand inside his underwear, Castiel thinks about Dean. He shuts his eyes and pretends that he’s kissing him, lips against his mouth, his cheek. He murmurs praises into Dean’s ear. Pretends to hear soft words in return. Pretends that their fight is a lover’s quarrel, one that Dean doesn’t know how to close now that Castiel has forgotten what it was like when they were together.

He thinks of Dean tucked tight against his body, hands on his hips and in his hair. Thinks of Dean pushing him into the mattress, or being the one being pushed. Of Dean being the one with his hand around Castiel’s cock. Or his mouth, plunging plush and wet.

Castiel pants loudly into his pillow, pace erratic. He pretends he can hear Dean breathing harshly with him, their chests labouring through breaths together, his feelings building like a physical ache—

_I love you. I love all of you._

Castiel jolts like he’s been thrown into ice water. His hand freezes. His cock throbs against his palm.

He remembers a pain in his stomach, darker than the one that’s been healing in him lately.

He remembers black blood spilling out from his mouth and Dean frowning down at him, unable to meet his gaze.

Maybe this is what Castiel has done to Dean. Maybe this is why Dean is upset with him.

For telling Dean he loved him the last time he lay dying.

Castiel frees his hand from his underwear. He no longer has an erection to deal with anyway.

“Sam, Castiel begins awkwardly, shuffling by where Sam is vacuuming debris from the back seat of the Impala.

“Yeah?” Sam glances at Cas, though he continues suctioning gravel from the wheel wells. He and Dean apparently drew rocks over who was responsible for cleaning her; Sam lost, while Dean curiously took the opportunity to go out for the day.

Castiel exhales loudly. He hates having to ask this. “Have I ever… told Dean that I loved him?”

Sam bangs his head against the roof of the Impala. He struggles to both turn off the shop vac and to right himself outside of the car. “ _What_?”

“I…” Castiel hangs there, uncertain. “I think I remember. Another time when I was… injured. I heard myself saying—some things. I just wondered—if it was to him.”

“Oh?” Sam frowns at the ground, scouring his memory. His brow suddenly lifts. “Oh. Yeah, um. You got hurt by Ramiel’s spear.”

“Ramiel?” Castiel stares. “Is he—”

“Dead,” Sam confirms. “Yeah, we handled it. But uh, when you were hurt, you said—to all of us. Mom, Dean and me. That you, uh.” He scratches his neck. “Yeah.”

“Oh,” Castiel says. He tries not to be disappointed.

“It’s good, right?” Sam says. “You’re starting to remember.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees carefully.

Except Castiel feels less like he is remembering things, and more like things are simply being remembered. He’s not choosing any of what comes back to him; it all just washes in like jetsam on the tide.

“Have Dean and I ever...” Castiel struggles with how to finish the thought.

Sam’s expression scrunches. “No. I mean, not that I know of. No.”

“Oh,” Castiel says. He tries hard not to be disappointed once again.

Dean arrives back in the bunker garage before Castiel and Sam are finished polishing up the Impala. He drives up to the parking spot beside them and climbs out of a silver pickup. His fist bangs jovially on the hood as he walks by it. For once, he’s smiling.

“Went and got it for you,” Dean tells them both, though he’s looking at Castiel. “Called in a favour with Amos; he’s gonna drive that birdshit POS back after he finishes up with a case.”

“It’s for me?” Castiel asks, at the same time Sam grumbles, “It’s not a bad car, Dean, even if it’s not pretty.”

Dean makes a face at Sam. “One, it’s an abomination.” Then, to Castiel: “Two, it’s for you, yeah. Who else would be driving this modern piece of crap?”

Castiel steps closer to the pickup truck. He looks over the side steps, peeks in through the window to the cab. Frowning, he asks, “What is it?”

Dean’s cheeky smile falters. “It’s your truck, Cas.”

“Mine?” Castiel balks.

“Dude,” Dean insists. “You asked for it. After the hospital, back in Salt Lake City.”

Castiel scours his memory, but at this point ‘truck’ is synonymous with ‘old brown piece of shit’.

Castiel stares harder, but the truck cab is just like his bedroom: devoid of any personal touches. He looks to Dean sadly. “I’m sorry, Dean. I don’t remember it.”

Dean scoffs. His jaw firms up, cheeks forming dimples. “Whatever. Just wasted my weekend getting it, but it’s fine. No problem. Gesture made.”

“Dean,” Sam says sharply after him, but Dean has already dropped the keys and walked away.

“How much longer do I have to wait for Dean to calm down?”

Castiel thinks it’s a reasonable question. He knows how long it typically takes Dean to cool off, during the time before his memory loss, but since they’re already fighting his estimates may no longer be accurate. He wants to follow after Dean, to hold him accountable for how he’s been acting, but Sam’s advice keeps Castiel from doing exactly that.

Predictably, Sam shakes his head in answer. “Don’t worry about it. Just—give him time. He’s been taking your whole… thing—pretty hard.”

Castiel fails to see how he could possibly ‘not worry’ about it. He grunts with frustration. “How am I supposed to get over my ‘whole thing’ if half of my family is ignoring me for it?”

“He gets like this sometimes.” Sam snorts, humorless, tucking away the shop vac. “Should’ve seen him after you died—”

“I _died?_ ”

“Uh,” Sam says. “Let me backtrack that.”

“Is this separate from the time with Ramiel?”

“Listen,” Sam says hastily. “You’re missing a lot. It’s kind of hard to explain.”

Castiel glowers until Sam caves, just a little.

He doesn’t divulge much, but at least it’s more than what Castiel woke up with today.

######  **FIVE**

Against Sam’s advisement, Castiel creeps down the halls that night and goes to visit Dean.

He finds Dean in his bedroom, curled up around a pillow, lying on his stomach on his bed. Cold pizza sits abandoned on a plate atop his desk. A black and white horror film flickers on his flatscreen.

Castiel expects Dean to be watching the movie, but there’s a book open on the bed in front of him, and his tablet is likewise resting within reach. Dean checks the page and then pecks something into his tablet, then stares a bit at the screen before repeating the motions.

It’s not the only book in the room either. Empty bottles have been shunted aside on Dean’s desk, making room for stacks of dusty tomes and leather-bound volumes, their vellum covers proudly proclaiming Heaven’s histories. The shelves above his bed have likewise been shuffled around, loose scrolls now peppered in between the weapons and further empties. Beside the door, a tower of books has been kicked miserably to the side, while others have been thrown to the floor, their spines laying open and broken.

Castiel bends to retrieve one such book, both hands used to smooth its ruffled pages.

 _Mechanica in mentem caelestem_.

He sets the book aside.

“Dean,” Castiel says quietly, drowned out by the heroine screaming in the film.

Dean keeps glancing between his tablet and his book. It doesn’t seem like Dean’s heard him, except Castiel notes the tension in his shoulders, newly formed.

“Dean,” Castiel repeats, louder. He breathes in, fortifying, then: “You don’t have to tell me everything I’ve forgotten. I would never burden you with that expectation. But can you at least tell me why we’re fighting.” He swallows, emotion rising in his throat. “I want to know what I’ve done to lose you.”

The heroine keeps screaming on the television.

“I deserve to know that much,” Castiel finishes, softly. “Talk to me, please.”

Growling noises emanate from the screen.

Castiel looks to the books at his feet. He sighs. “Alright. At least I tried.”

Castiel has the door open, and has stepped partly back into the hall, when he hears: “We had a fight.”

Shuffling noises come from behind him, along the bed. Something plastic clacks against the nightstand. The television falls silent.

“It was about Jack,” Dean says. “About how to handle Jack. His powers.”

Castiel turns around. Dean sits upright on his bed, his legs swung over the side.

Dean turns his head. Looks up at Castiel. “You know about Jack, right?”

Castiel nods. “He’s in my phone. But… I don’t know who he was. To us.” Not really, anyway. Not in any way that matters.

“He was. Uh. Lucifer’s kid.”

Castiel stills. “A nephilim.”

“Yeah. But he was kinda—He was our kid too.” Dean picks at his hands. “After mom died, we—” He exhales, hard. “We argued about how to handle him.”

Castiel nods. “You wanted to save him.”

Dean winces. “ _You_ did, actually. I—uh.” He picks at his nail. “I wasn’t in a good place. It was after—after Mom.”

“Oh,” Castiel says. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, nodding. “Yeah.”

Castiel watches Dean, now that he is able to do so without upsetting him. He draws his gaze along the crest of Dean’s bowed head. Over his cheek; across his mournful mouth. Down his slumped shoulders, snagging on his folded hands.

It hurts, how much he loves Dean. Always.

It hurts, knowing they might never be okay again.

“Can you tell me,” Castiel begins hesitantly, “about Chuck and Lilith? I know you and Sam are searching for them. Maybe… maybe I can help.”

Devoid of laughter, Dean chuckles. “You don’t want in on this, buddy. Trust me.”

“I do,” Castiel insists. He steps forward, up to the foot of Dean’s bed. “Whatever is happening, we can find a way through it. Together.”

 _You, me and Sam, we’re just better together_.

Something in Dean caves. His hands drop to the bed, pushing until he’s up on his feet. He looks at Castiel, really looks at him, his gaze not once faltering to the scar on Castiel’s face.

A shift happens, in his expression. Almost imperceptible, but still, it’s there.

Dean claps a hand onto Castiel’s shoulder. “Maybe we should go for a drive.”

######  **SIX**

The weather stays clear the whole way north through Billings, Montana, the air cool and crisp with the promise of autumn. They toss on heavier coats for their stop that night in Bozeman, taking up two lumpy double beds at a cheap motel that promises an even cheaper continental breakfast when they wake. Clouds crop up as they continue on west in the morning, cutting through Missoula and Spokane, the sky a muzzy blanket cozying them in amid the burgeoning hills and trees.

A lot comes out, now that they’re finally stuck in a car with one another, nothing to save them from each other except the landscape and a rotating tape deck. Castiel gets the cliffs notes version of what actually followed after the attack dog spell. Lucifer’s return — via Castiel’s possession — and his ultimate demise. Another Michael’s return — via Dean’s possession — and his ultimate demise as well.

He learns about the new Death, and the Darkness. About Chuck’s true nature, and his absence; his subsequent return, and absence, only to return again.

About Mary. About the hard path the brothers travelled to reunite with their mother. About another Charlie and another Bobby. About their own beautiful, imperfect Rowena, and the sacrifice she made.

About Jack. His bright soul.

About what happened in the end, for him and Mary both.

It’s late afternoon by the time they finally reach North Cove. The clouds have been building since Aberdeen, and have only darkened the longer they drive the 105. Dean takes to tuneless tapping on the steering wheel when the first rain droplets hit just after Cohassett Beach; by the time they exit the state park, the light downfall has turned into heavy rain.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean curses, quietly and repeatedly, as he noses the Impala down a road less used than the 105. Castiel holds onto the seat and the door frame, steadying himself against the ruts jostling them. Raindrops kick like gravel against the roof above his head.

Castiel doesn’t ask where Dean is taking him. He gets the impression — seeing how Dean’s meandering retelling skipped critical points, between Jack’s birth and his disappearance to the apocalypse world — that maybe these are things Dean has deemed important for Castiel to recall for himself. That maybe what’s coming is meant to help him remember all the rest.

Eventually, the trees clear enough to reveal the ocean, its waters a pitted and opaque gray. The rain softens its beatings against the rooftop, as they depart the trees. The Impala digs loamy ruts in the dirt leading to a cabin up ahead.

Dean shifts them into park at the front of the cabin, turns the key.

The radio silences. The wipers still.

The windows start to fog with the chilly air.

Castiel watches Dean, staring openly across the bench seat, though Dean’s mind is miles away from registering the intrusion. When Castiel touches the door handle, looking back, Dean dips his head, deferring. Castiel climbs out from the car.

Dean follows a half-step behind, hitting the front deck around the same time that Castiel is creaking open the cabin’s front door.

The interior to the cabin is homey. Built from natural woods. Decorated in dust and light.

His footsteps track mud into the hall. Rainwater drips in his ears. Down his neck. No one has been here since…

Since he came here with Kelly Kline.

Castiel approaches the stairs, touches the banister. He looks up the stairwell, at the landing to the second storey up ahead.

Something about this place is so warm, and yet so mournful. He senses loss emanating from the walls around him. From a room above him.

“Anything pinging?” Dean asks, voice strange. Distant.

Castiel brings one foot to the first step. His grip flexes on the banister, experimental.

The cabin is as quiet as a house of prayer.

“This,” Castiel says, “is where Jack was born. Where Kelly… died, and...”

“Yeah,” Dean says, when the silence hangs. “And?”

Castiel doesn’t finish the thought. A second sorrow comes for him, carrying like the prayers he once was able to hear. The sorrow expands until it fills the room, building like a broken breath.

Castiel looks away from the second storey of the cabin. He turns to where Dean is waiting for him in the dining room.

Dean’s brows are tight, gaze narrowed to the wooden table resting beneath his fingertips. He looks wrung out and empty, painted in half hues in the hazy late afternoon sunlight. Something about this place has upset him greatly.

Dean rubs a thumb against his lips. Drops his hand. Swallows hard. "This," he says, knuckles rapping against the table, “is where you died.”

Castiel stares at Dean, heart pounding. Waiting for signs of what he’s thinking.

There is a history here, thumping away through the silence. It beats its way through the tightness in Dean’s jaw. The tension in his body. The glassy look clouding his eyes.

There is something here to share, between them. Except Dean isn’t ready.

Not yet.

Dean raps his knuckles one last time against the table. He then bucks himself up and takes out his keys, brusquely leaving the dining room. “C’mon, then. Let’s get your truck.”

Less quickly, Castiel follows.

They luck out and find Castiel’s truck where Dean abandoned it, on the day Castiel was killed. Dean had driven it up to the patch of forest he had cleared cutting wood for Castiel’s pyre. The truck had been pushed in past the stumps Dean had left, and covered with pine branches.

Dean sweeps away the soggy boughs, now, the collection of dirt and pine needles scratching across the truck’s brown hood. He pops the hood latch and fishes out the key from where he’d hid it, reconnects the distributor cap he’d dislodged to discourage any finders from taking it away.

“Here goes nothing,” Dean murmurs, once they’ve topped up the rotten fuel tank with a jerry can of fresh gas. He sits behind the wheel and cranks the ignition, listening to the engine whine its way through its first attempt at life.

It doesn’t turn.

The second comes no quieter.

The engine whimpers and groans, but it won’t show them its belly.

Dean slams his fist against the wheel, cursing. He climbs out of the cab in a huff, popping the hood once again.

Castiel sits quietly in the truck’s musty cab, hands to himself, eyes wandering. There are few possessions left to the vehicle, this many years since being abandoned, but the truck has a few faint glimpses of the Castiel who had owned it, for a time.

Old energy bars are stocked in the glove compartment, well past their best-by date. A bag of badly-dissolved baby diapers sits in the passenger wheel well. A paperback book about raising babies is wedged into the seat cushions. A hunter’s go-bag of inks and warding ingredients is tucked beneath the bench. Maps with little x’s marked across cities and states litter the console floor.

Castiel runs his hands over the dashboard, collecting dust beneath his fingers. His nail ticks the flap of the cassette receiver. It stops, seemingly occupied. On a whim, he presses the ‘eject’ key.

A cassette pops out from the mouth on the dash. Castiel pulls it out carefully, checks for a label on its front and back.

_Deans Top 13 Zepp Traxx_

The truck hood slams, accompanied by further cursing. Dean marches through the underbrush and sticks his head in through the driver side door. “Think the belt is fucked, again. Swear to God—well, not actually—but it’s gonna take at least a day’s work to get it starting again.”

Castiel nods, pushing himself down the dusty bench seat and out the driver side. “It’s alright, Dean, if it’s too much trouble. We’re fine leaving it.”

And he means it; it’s enough to have felt the truck again beneath his hands. To have touched it and verified that it is what he remembers, in those few memories he has recovered.

Dean groans in answer. He looks miserable, sodden and wet. “Except we came out here to take it home.”

“It’s alright,” Castiel insists. “I recognize it. But… I seem to remember my silver pickup being more reliable. Needing less repairs.”

Snorting, Dean smiles. “You got me beat there.” His expression turns serious. “Are you sure? Because I don’t mind coming back tomorrow—”

“Dean,” Castiel says, gently. “I’m sure.”

Dean hangs for a moment, then deflates, relieved. “Alright.”

“Besides, we would have to drive home separately.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “wouldn’t like that.” He lifts his chin toward Castiel’s hand. “What you got there?”

“Nothing,” Castiel says. He pockets the cassette away.

######  **SEVEN**

The drive back is tense, whiteknuckled through the torrential downpour of the storm. The radio is turned low, so Dean can better concentrate. Castiel’s head is throbbing with the influx of memories he’s found again.

Dean gets them as far as Kelso before he’s calling it for the night, pulling them into the parking lot of a motel whose sign they can barely see through the rain. They get a room with a pair of queen beds, the second to last ones left. Dean fiddles with the key until the lock unlatches and the door opens. Castiel does the honors of carrying in their bag.

“Calling the shower,” Dean tells him, shaking his fingers through his soggy hair. Castiel confirms what to order for delivery before Dean disappears into the bathroom, the door wedged closed. The shower curtain clatters down its rod.

Castiel tunes the television to the local news, stretches himself out along one of the beds. He catches a soft tune humming through the walls of the bathroom. He smiles and settles more deeply into the bed.

“Hey. Sleepyhead.” A wet towel drops into Castiel’s face, jarring him awake. “How long ‘til food?”

Castiel frowns through pushing the towel away. He glances around for a clock; Dean tells him the time. “Another twenty,” he burbles, voice burred by sleep. “Maybe more.”

Dean whistles. “When did you order?”

“It’s the rain,” Castiel says. “They’re driving slow.”

“Grumpy.” Dean hits him with the towel again.

Dean settles in on the bed opposite, digging through the shadows by the floor before pushing his legs into a pair of dark sweatpants. The undershirt he threw on has its collar already soaked through with shower water. Castiel wants to run his fingers through the dark spikes of Dean’s hair.

“You showering?” Dean asks, hunched over a pair of socks he’s pulling on.

Castiel shrugs, pushes himself upright. He winces at the familiar pain in his abdomen the motion brings.

Dean frowns. “How’s it healing?”

Castiel shrugs again. He fishes up the tail of his t-shirt, runs his fingers over the memorized positions of his scars. “It won’t keep me from the shower.”

“Good.” Dean whips him playfully with the towel. “You should. The heat in this place is great.”

Nodding, Castiel collects himself upright, shuffling a hand through his bedhead. He pulls a pair of fresh boxers from the duffle bag — Dean only packed them the one, since Castiel has yet to build a proper human wardrobe, and Castiel mostly fits Dean’s wear anyways — and shuts himself in the bathroom.

Dean’s right about the shower. He does feel better once he’s under its spray.

By time Castiel comes out, the food he’d ordered has been bought and paid for. Dean has his burger wrapper open on the bed beside him, a pile of salty fries poured out across it. He chews mindlessly, watching the television, except as soon as Castiel enters, his attention draws away.

Castiel removes the towel from around his neck. He locates a night shirt from the duffle, pulls it over his head.

Dean looks pale when Castiel turns back to him. His burger is set aside, unfinished. Castiel grabs his takeout, sits down across from Dean. He catches Dean seemingly deep in thought about something.

“What is it?” Castiel asks, unfolding the wrapper of his chicken burger.

Dean glances quickly at him, then aside. “Nothing. Just—hadn’t seen your, uh. Before.” He waves a hand over his torso, then slaps it down on his thigh, stilling it.

“Oh.” Castiel admits it looks pretty bad; the worst of the bruising hasn’t faded yet, even though he treats the scars with cream every night. He has to hope that the unevenness of his skin will fade as the years pass. Has to hope he’ll have years left to let them fade.

He bites into his burger, chews. Waits until Dean has resumed eating before he says, “You still haven’t told me about our fight.”

Dean falters. He drags a finger over his chin, collecting a loose gush of ketchup off his face. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, once he’s swallowed.

“Dean,” Castiel says, disappointed.

Dean waves his hand. “I mean it, Cas. I was… Y’know. An asshole. And you decided you’d had enough of it.”

“When was this?” Castiel asks.

“Around the hellmouth,” Dean says. “Shortly after.”

Castiel confirms the timeframe against his mental calendar; it aligns with when his texting with Dean went away.

“I kinda held you accountable,” Dean continues, pausing. “For Mom. At the time. For what Jack did to her.”

“And now?” Castiel asks.

Dean winces. “Not really.”

‘Not really’, meaning ‘kind of’.

“Oh,” Castiel says.

The food in his mouth turns ashen. He puts his burger back on its wrapper.

“Cas,” Dean begins, as Castiel moves for the bathroom. He rises to follow, catching the door before Castiel can close it, although he doesn’t enter. He watches Castiel sit on the closed lid of the toilet.

Castiel pushes his face into his hands. He doesn’t remember what happened, but he can feel it. He can sense how his body is ready to accept whatever blame lays out there for Mary’s death, whether or not that blame is duly earned.

A small part of him rallies against it, however. A new part, slowly tended to in the years he’s patched together.

Castiel looks at Dean. His face feels hot and splotchy, like it reveals too much of himself. “Even after what you’ve learned about Chuck, you still hold me responsible.”

Dean flinches, his jaw hardening. “Didn’t say it was rational.”

“No,” Castiel agrees archly. “It’s not.”

Dean hangs his head. “I can’t—” He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. Dean wants to shy away, but Castiel’s gaze holds him pinned in place. Lamely, Dean says, “I don’t know how to control how I feel.”

“Try,” Castiel says. He feels rude as soon as he says it. But Dean needs to grow too, if Castiel is going to stay.

Dean sighs. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to bring it up again, because it’s done with. I don’t—feel that way. Not anymore.”

Not so hotly, perhaps, but that ember is still burning. Unfortunately for Dean, Castiel will no longer put his hands voluntarily into the flames.

“What d’you think I’ve been trying? With this whole trip to—” Dean drops his hands to his thighs, sighing. Quietly, he says, “You’re my rock, Cas. I would never... I don’t wanna ever lose you again.”

Castiel exhales heavily.

“Sorry to dump you back into this shithole,” Dean mumbles, kicking a heel against the bathroom tiles.

“It’s okay,” Castiel says, because it’s jarring, absolutely… except Castiel can feel how he already knew all this before. “I asked for it, after all.”

“Cas.” Dean sighs heavily. “No, you didn’t. You don’t deserve—” He shuts his eyes. Swallows. “You deserve better than what I give you. That’s for sure.”

Unable to say anything to it, Castiel nods. At least they can both agree on that.

######  **EIGHT**

The weather has cleared by the morning, although the roads are still slick with excess rain. Castiel runs out for coffee from a convenience store two blocks south, dodging puddles. He comes back with a bag of oranges and beef jerky, and two cups steaming on a takeaway tray.

Dean eats his jerky on the road, humming tunelessly along with the radio. Castiel peels his oranges in long, spiralling lines. He props the peel up on his thigh, and tucks stray pieces of whiteflesh inside the hollow sphere.The wedges burst brightly on his tongue.

He slept well, all things considering. The silence they have now isn’t a result of tension. They’re just quiet. Wiped clean from conversation.

“One last chance to bring your truck back,” Dean tells him idly, even though they’re already neck-deep into Oregon, with the Idaho border coming up a couple hours ahead.

“It’s fine, Dean,” Castiel says. “I got what I needed from it.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean eyes him, gazing flickering above the steering wheel.

Castiel hums politely and stares out the window. He watches the distant hills rise and fall along the I-84, the earth around them a suede brown dotted scrub green and stone gray.

Dean gets them a real meal in Boise in the late afternoon, and then takes off for Twin Falls. It’s been a long day already; Castiel would offer to drive, but it doesn’t interest him the same way it does Dean.

When the radio fizzles out, wandering lost between stations, Castiel fishes out from his pocket the cassette tape he’d taken from the truck. He plugs the cassette into the tape deck, earning a raised eyebrow from Dean but nothing more.

A song picks up, mid-tempo.

_And to our health we drank a thousand times._

Dean makes a sound that catches in his throat. It takes a while for him to collect himself. “Didn’t know you had a Led Zeppelin tape,” he says roughly.

“Seems I was given one,” Castiel replies, light.

Dean falls quiet after that. When Castiel glances at him, he catches a smile flushing out the dimples on Dean’s face.

They exit Idaho with an intimacy Castiel has never before experienced. On a whim, he decides to act on it, reaching out for Dean’s free hand.

Dean’s attention snaps over to him as Castiel touches him, fingers flexing on instinct. Castiel tightens his hold before loosening, allowing Dean the option to remove himself from Castiel’s grip.

He doesn’t.

Castiel smiles at the road up ahead.

They say nothing about it, just listen through both sides of the tape.

Dean is already in bed by time Castiel steps out from the shower, having crashed out at the first motel they found upon entering Salt Lake City. His breathing comes slow and deep, through the darkness. Castiel feels bad for having to turn on a bedside light, stirring Dean awake.

“It’s okay,” Castiel whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

Dean squints a frown over his shoulder. It doesn’t take much coaxing to get him to lie down again.

Hesitating, Castiel dries his hair a final time before climbing into the bed behind Dean. Dean breathes in sharply at the added weight coming behind him, but all he does is shuffle over, giving more space behind him on the bed.

Castiel turns off the light, drops his head onto the pillow. He feels out the warm place where Dean had been, brushing the sheets there with his hand.

“You okay?” Dean murmurs. His head lifts a little, though not enough to see much of anything, this time of night.

Castiel touches a hand to Dean’s back, between his shoulder blades. Dean shivers, but he does not move away.

Emboldened, Castiel moves closer. He wraps both hands around Dean, tucking them together tightly.

Dean’s chest puffs on a deep inhale. It takes a moment, but his hand folds upon Castiel’s, fingers entwined atop his belly.

Castiel feels so warm and full, he cannot help the kiss he places onto the back of Dean’s neck.

Dean prickles, body stiffening with some emotion Castiel cannot yet identify. His fist wraps more heartily around Castiel’s hand, ensuring he doesn’t dare pull away.

“I love you, Dean,” Castiel whispers, straight into Dean’s skin. “I know I said it before, but I don’t remember. So. I love you.”

“Yeah,” Dean rasps. “Same, uh. Same to you.”

There’s more, so much more, that Castiel longs to do. He settles for tucking his knees up behind Dean’s knees. For folding his icy feet in between Dean’s warm ones. For holding Dean as he squirms, turning around in Castiel’s arms so he can balk and frown and kiss and complain, all while Castiel beams brightly, grinning over at the man he loves.

It doesn’t feel like settling at all.

**Author's Note:**

> rebloggable on [tumblr](https://vaudelin.tumblr.com/post/189559103918/title-a-tale-that-cant-be-told-author-vaudelin).


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